


witching hour

by dashwood



Series: mayhem and mystery [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Crack, Hurt/Comfort, Literary References, M/M, Martín isn't good at emotions it's hard okay, Mention of Andrés / Tatiana (in the past), Pining, Swearing, buzzfeed unsolved au, fake kissing, spooky content, the premise is ridiculous (John Mulaney voice) and it gets worse, things that go bump in the night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26545213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “Okay, fine,” Martín said, trying to aim for lightheartedness when he was feeling anything but. “Let’s pretend – for a moment – that you’re right and this isn’t some elaborate ploy to get into my pants—”“Please. If I wanted to fuck you, I'd just tell you to drop your pants and bend over the backseat."Martín spluttered.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: mayhem and mystery [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851757
Comments: 21
Kudos: 66





	witching hour

**Author's Note:**

> Thumbnail & Video editing by [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/works)
> 
> **The Weeping Witch of the Wanahweep Woods**
> 
> The Wanahweep Woods. For decades, locals have reported strange sightings. Thick mist wrapping itself around the trees like a torn wedding veil, pitiful moans disturbing the peace of night, will-o-the-wisps dancing through the thicket. The woods are rumored to be haunted by the spirit of la Llorona. According to folklore, la Llorona drowned her children and is now cursed to mourn them for eternity. 
> 
> What will the boys encounter when they venture into the woods by night? 
> 
> Don’t forget to like and subscribe! And follow us on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sorrydearie) | [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com/) for more spooky content! 
> 
> 15,427,910 views | Dec 14, 2019  
>  49K Likes | 4.7K Dislikes | Share | Save

“Nonono, hang on.” Martín shook his head in disbelief, his lips stretching into a feral smile. More of a grimace, really. “You’re telling me that la Llorona – a ghostly apparition who is infamous for luring poor little children into the woods – is stalking horny teenagers? Please tell me you know how ridiculous that sounds. It’s very important to me that you know.” 

Andrés rolled his eyes. 

“I can’t speak for her. Who am I to make sense of the otherworldly?” 

Martín wanted to _groan_. There was no arguing with Andrés when he was like that, when he had picked up a scent. Like a dog with a bone, Andrés wouldn't stop until he was satisfied. Until he held in his hands the irrefutable proof that ghosts and demons and witches and wendigos did truly exist. 

Although how he would accomplish that, Martín wasn't sure. Because it wasn’t like he could simply bottle la Llorona up in a jar and shove her in front of the camera, shaking her makeshift prison until she was wailing, loud and clear. If you asked Martín, this whole endeavor was fruitless. They were bound to fail. 

Maybe that was why Tatiana had opted out of this one, why she had shrugged her shoulders and told them _no can do, boys_. Because she didn’t believe that they’d find anything. Why else would she prefer to spend time with her girlfriend instead of coming with them, instead of being around Andrés? 

Come to think of it, Tatiana had acted funny about it, too. There’d been a suspicious glint in her eyes when she had told Andrés that she couldn't tag along and make out with him to lure out the witch. That he would have to find someone else to get to first-second-third base with him, out there in the woods. 

Martín had offered, of course. Enthusiastically, generously. But Andrés had just stared at him in silence for one agonizingly slow beat before turning away and continuing to add tiny hen scratches to their map. A no, then. Martín had pushed down on the disappointment licking at his heart and gone back to loading their equipment into the trunk of his Ford Fiesta. 

It was a six-hour drive to Wanahweep Woods. Six hours of Martín chucking back one watered-down gas station coffee after the other while Andrés had dozed off in the passenger seat. Martín would have been pissed about that if Andrés hadn't looked so peaceful, so vulnerable. Like a child, he had rested his head against the window, his brows slightly furrowed, soft little sighs escaping his parted lips every now and then. It had been a sight to behold. 

Andrés had only woken up when Martín pulled into the trail head leading up to the woods. It was lined with large-looming trees that stretched their gnarled fingers towards the car, pointing at them – _look at these intruders, who dares to disturb our sleep_? 

Martín could have sworn that he’d heard their branches dragging over the car’s roof, scratching and tip-tapping as if they were asking to be allowed inside, eager to seek shelter from the freezing cold. Which was ridiculous. Because trees weren’t sentient. Obviously.

Still, he had an uneasy feeling about this. 

“Okay, fine,” Martín said, trying to aim for lightheartedness when he was feeling anything but. “Let’s pretend – for a moment – that you’re right and this isn’t some elaborate ploy to get into my pants—” 

“Please. If I wanted to fuck you, I'd just tell you to drop your pants and bend over the backseat." 

Martín spluttered. 

“ _Vale_ ,” he murmured after a second, his cheeks burning. He cleared his throat, eager to change the topic. To hang onto the last shreds of his dignity for just a little longer. “Okay, so. Let’s assume that la Llorona is real. Do you really think she’ll just show up and screech at us for making out in her woods? Because that would be homophobic of her.” 

Andrés clicked his tongue, his brow furrowing. He didn’t seem happy about this turn of events, by Martín's pièce de résistance. If anything, his tone was chastising: 

“Why are you refusing me, Martín?” He asked. “You volunteered to do this, didn’t you? You offered.” 

“Yeah, but...” 

“You changed your mind?” 

_I didn’t think you’d actually take me up on it_ , Martín wanted to protest. _I didn't think I should be so lucky. That you would allow me this_. 

Of course, he couldn’t say any of that. And so Martín took a deep breath and put on a big fat smile, raising his hands in a wordless go-ahead. Every inch the confident bastard, that was him. Flirtatious, and game for anything. Eager, even. 

Andrés blinked at him, seemingly taken aback by his sudden change of heart. How laughable, Martín thought. By now Andrés should know that Martín was a complete pushover; he couldn’t deny Andrés anything. Why else would he continue to show up for these stupid ghost hunts? 

Did Andrés honestly think that Martín liked hanging out in creepy cabins? That he enjoyed the judgmental looks Mirko shot his way whenever he came home in dirty clothes, dragging mud and cobwebs through their flat? Or that Martín got a kick out of telling his boss that he had to switch shifts because he had to go to a sleepover at an old insane asylum? 

Yeah, right. 

Martín wouldn't be here if it weren't for Andrés. 

Andrés, who lost all sense of time when he spoke about Romantic poetry, whose eyes shone with fascination whenever he discovered a new case, who made Martín feel like he was important, indispensable. 

Andrés, whose gaze had dropped to Martín's lips. When he spoke up at last, Martín could barely hear him over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. 

“A first.” 

Martín frowned. 

“What?” 

“I have never kissed a boy.” 

“A _man_.” 

“But I suppose you are to me what Edleston was to Byron. _Love dwells not in our will / Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot_ —” 

“Are you going to keep talking all night?” Martín butted in, ignoring the way Andrés' lips drew into a thin line. “Because I don’t think that’ll impress the witch, hmm?” 

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t dare interrupt Andrés when he was going off on one of his tangents. But right now Martín could barely stand the anticipation. His fingers were itching to reach for Andrés, to take him up on his almost-invitation, this indication that Martín would not be refused, that his advances would be welcomed, even. 

And yet, Martín knew that he couldn't simply close the distance between them. That he couldn’t wrap his arms around Andrés and pull him into a heated kiss. Take what he wanted. Martín wasn't that bold, after all. He wasn't the one to call the shots in their relationship, no. He followed Andrés' lead, as certain as summer followed spring. Which was why he would wait, impatiently, for Andrés to make a move. 

To devour him, whole-hearted and bleak-boned. Like the big, bad wolf in the darkest of fairy tales. 

Martín held his breath, waiting. 

When Andrés finally – fucking _finally_! – leaned in, Martín's eyes fluttered close and a pathetic little gasp escaped him, as though his body hadn’t been prepared. As though the kiss had taken him by surprise, caught him unawares. And maybe it had. Because even though he had expected Andrés to kiss him, he hadn't expected _this_. For Andrés to kiss him so softly, so gently, so lovingly. 

It made him want to weep with joy. 

The kiss was sweet and chaste. Completely innocent. It was the kind of kiss Andrés' Romantics would talk about in their poems, and which Martín had never experienced once in his life. Not until now. 

It left him breathless. To be treated with such care, as if he were delicate and easy to break. 

Martín swallowed. Hard. 

“Coward,” he managed to say. His voice sounded embarrassingly hoarse. Even so he couldn’t stop the words from slipping off his tongue, couldn’t stop himself from poking the beast, couldn’t stop his treacherous heart from hoping for more. “I thought you wanted to give the witch a show, hmm? Is this how you kissed Tatiana? Because if so, I’m not surprised that she left you for that whore—” 

The rest of his words was swallowed by Andrés' mouth, hot and insistent, and Martín couldn't hold back the moan that rumbled in his chest, not when Andrés' teeth bit at his bottom lip, breaking the skin. He could taste the blood on his tongue, sharp and metallic – and so fucking hot. 

Martín whined when Andrés pulled away, chasing his mouth with his own – but finding himself thrown back against the seat when his seatbelt cut into the flesh of his neck, as sharp as claws. In that moment, he felt like a sailor jumping overboard to follow the siren’s call, even if it killed him. But fuck, Andrés looked like a vision. A faerie king, drenched in moonlight. His lips were smeared with Martín's blood, marked by his touch. His desire. 

He wanted to kiss him again. To dive right back in, to give himself over. Again and again, until Andrés had taken everything from him, until there was nothing left of him. 

However, the look on Andrés' face gave him pause. He was looking at Martín strangely, as if he had just grown a second head. With antlers. 

“What’s wrong?” Martín asked, but what he really wanted to say was _why did you stop_ and _kiss me again, please._

“You’re crying.” 

“What?” 

Martín's hand flew up to his face, finding his cheeks warm and wet. Fuck. That had never happened before. Fucking stupid- he was such a mess. 

“Sorry,” Martín said hastily, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his sleeves. How pathetic. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Andrés said. His tone was off; Martín couldn't help but think that he sounded displeased. Disappointed. “You should have told me that you were uncomfortable.” 

“What? No, that’s not – What the fuck was that?!” 

A sharp cry had pierced the night, neither howl nor shriek. Whatever it was, it chilled Martín to the bone even as it lit up the fire in Andrés' eyes. 

Martín let out an undignified _oof_ when Andrés clambered over his lap and pushed open the door to the driver’s side, letting in the freezing air as he jumped out and vanished into the night, leaving Martín behind. Alone. 

“Andrés! Wait!" 

Martín swore as his fingers fumbled with the seatbelt. His body was shaking with impatience, with adrenaline, as he stumbled out of the car and into the darkness. 

He knew it was futile as soon as he stepped out of the car’s headlights, as soon as his outstretched hands were swallowed whole by blackness. He couldn’t see shit. It was as if someone had taken a hot iron poker to his eyes, blinding him. 

Still, he pressed on. Because Andrés was somewhere out there and that alone was reason enough to stumble through the woods at night, guided only by the occasional snapping of twigs and the faint moonlight breaking through the treetops. 

He wasn’t even sure if he was headed in the right direction. He hadn’t paid any attention to where Andrés had run off to, too distracted by his seatbelt, by his frazzled nerves. By the kiss. His lips were still tingling, the metallic tang of blood lingering on the tip of his tongue. 

In the distance an owl screeched. 

The branches kept scratching at his face, his arms, his legs. Skeletal hands tugging at his clothes as he stumbled around aimlessly, straining his ears for any signs of Andrés. There was nothing though. Nothing but his own breathing – but wasn’t that even worse? Because the forest only falls silent when there is a predator on the prowl. 

A wolf, Martín thought. Or maybe a bear. Either way, it wasn’t good. 

He needed to find Andrés. Preferably before whatever had caused the forest to go quiet could sink its teeth into Andrés' flesh. 

“ _Hijo_ _de puta_ ,” Martín mumbled to himself. He felt like an idiot, stomping around the forest without aim or direction. 

He should have just stayed at home. He could have been watching Netflix right now, his belly warmed by a couple of beers. Cozy and comfortable. But Andrés had smiled at him and said _I have something special planned for you tonight_ , and somehow the words had made Martín's breath catch in his throat. Just... the glint in Andrés' eyes, the way his hand had slid down the curve of Martín's arm, a silent _come on, Martín. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me now, would you?_

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the exposed root until it was too late, until his foot caught in its snare. A sharp cry tore itself from his throat as white-hot pain pierced his ankle, causing him to lose his footing. He threw out his arms in a desperate attempt to catch himself against one of the trees, but it only served to split open the skin of his palms, the burning sensation hot and raw. Still, the pain in his hands was nothing but an afterthought as he tumbled into the thicket, finding himself in a puddle of dirt and grime. 

He tried to get up but cried out in pain when he moved his ankle, lightning setting the nerve endings in his leg aflame. 

Fucking great. It looked like he had twisted it. He couldn’t move, stuck in a sea of mud and dirt with no way out. 

He was a horse with a broken leg. Useless. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he forced his body to take a deep breath. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good, not now. He needed to keep a cool head. 

But fuck, it was so hard to focus. His whole body was shaking like a leaf; the mud soaking through his clothes and sticking to his skin was icy to the touch. He was freezing to death, plain and simple. Because wasn’t that what happened to people who wandered off into the woods in the heart of winter? They got stuck in the mud or snow, and died. And it only took them about, what, a few hours? What if Andrés didn't find him in time? 

He was going to die here. 

_Fuck_. 

He didn’t even have his phone on him. He had left it behind in the car, along with the camera. Which meant that he didn’t have anything to call for help with, no source of light, nothing. 

Gritting his teeth, Martín looked around, hoping to find anything that could help him now. A liana or maybe a sturdy branch – anything that could be used to pull himself up. But there was nothing but dirt and starved-looking trees. The meagre moonlight distorted them into ghastly shadows stretching their limbs towards the heavens, swaying slightly from side to side. 

All except for one. 

It didn’t look like a tree. Its crown was too small, its spindly arms too long. Its body was elongated, almost humanoid. 

“Andrés?" 

There was no reply. Only the rustling of branches, the groaning of winter-wary trees, the murmuring of the wind. 

Martín swallowed. He kept his eyes on the figure, not daring to look away for one second. And yet... Even through narrowed eyes, Martín couldn't make out its shape, couldn't tell where it began and the forest ended. It seemed to blend seamlessly into its surroundings, a part of nature. But still, there was something abnormal about it, something Other. It was wrong. Unnatural. 

Or maybe there wasn’t anything there at all. Maybe his panic-wrought mind was only imagining its wild stare, the reek of rot and sputum spoiling the air. Bile rose up in his throat, sharp and bitter. 

He couldn’t move, frozen in fear. His head was screaming at him, urging him to run, to get away, _now_! But his horror was drowned out by a voice that sounded suspiciously like Andrés' elegant drawl, encouraging him to _look, Martín. You are in the presence of Greatness. Don’t waste it now_. It made him want to reach out, to hold out his hand like a man approaching a skittish creature. _Have no fear_ , he wanted to say, _we are the same_. 

A twig snapped somewhere behind him. His head whirled around, and Martín could have _wept_ with relief when he saw Andrés standing in front of him, the burgundy wool of his scarf shining brightly in the dim moonlight, a lighthouse in the dark. 

“Martín. Are you alright?" 

Andrés knelt down beside him, hands reaching out to grab his shoulders. 

“I didn’t- there was-” 

His voice cracked, torn in two by the lump in his throat. He shifted his gaze past Andrés' head, searching the spot where he had seen the Thing just moments before. 

Nothing. 

There was nothing. 

“Tell me what happened.” 

“Fucking slipped,” Martín bit out through clenched teeth. "My ankle...” 

“Can you put weight on it?” 

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” 

Andrés gave a nod and before Martín knew what he was doing, he had slipped out of his coat and wrapped it around Martín's shoulders. Its familiar scent washed over him, calming his rabbit heart and warming his frost-bitten body. It soothed him, cleared his mind. To think that he had thought... that he had actually started to believe that there’d been something out there, with him... 

Fuck, he felt so stupid. 

His eyes were starting to burn, prickling with unshed tears. Shame and humiliation kept warring inside of him, harsh and cruel. He ducked his head to hide his face. A second later he felt a hand on his head, brushing off the leaves and grime sticking to his hair. The gentle touch was enough to make him whimper. 

“Shh, it’s alright.” 

It was the worst thing Andrés could have possibly said. The softness in his voice, the affection, made Martín's bottom lip quiver as the tears started to fall down his face, freely, uncontrollably. He didn’t even know why he was such a mess, if it was the cold or the pain or simply the fact that just seconds before he’d been convinced that he would die right there, not knowing if Andrés was alright. Martín had never been so scared in his life. 

“Fuck,” he sniffed, dragging a hand across his face. 

“Here. Come on.” Andrés turned around, and it was a testament to Martín's exhaustion that he didn't even protest. Without a word, he climbed onto Andrés' back, clumsily, awkwardly. It took him a moment to wrap his arms around Andrés' shoulders, to bump his knees against his waist, to press his face into the nape of his neck. He felt like a child. Small and useless, scared of the dark. 

Andrés should’ve just left him there. With Martín's luck, he’d somehow cause Andrés to slip and lose his balance. He'd fall and break his neck, left to stare at the star-spotted night sky with unseeing eyes, and it'd be Martín's fault, his alone, and— 

“ _The savior must have been / A docile gentleman, / To come so far so cold a day / For little fellowmen_ ,” Andrés recited, his voice as sweet as syrup. “Take a guess?” 

Martín gave a soft hum, faithless. Andrés might have just as well asked him to name every species of bird native to South England. 

“Keats?” 

Andrés shook his head and Martín wanted to purr when their cheeks brushed. The touch – fleeting as could be – sent a sprinkle of warmth through his freezing body, a tingling, tentative thing. 

“Keats preferred an iambic pentameter,” Andrés said, words dripping with reverence, with barely-contained admiration. He sounded as though he was talking about an intimate friend, _I believe you have met John?_

Every word that fell from his lips was poesy, as untainted and exquisite as if it had come straight from one of the great Romantics. It was impressive, especially considering that Andrés had dropped out of his literature classes because the teachers were ‘ignorant cretins who had dared to argue in favor of dropping the induction from Shakespeare’s _The Taming of the Shrew_ ’ (Martín had heard that particular rant often enough to know it by heart. Yeah, he wasn't happy about it either). 

But that was the thing about Andrés. He held so much passion inside of him that he grew irritated whenever someone turned their nose at literature, at poetry, at art. Martín loved that about Andrés. Liked! He _liked_ that about Andrés. 

“Dickinson favored a common meter,” Andrés went on. "That is why her poems sound like religious hymns. Soothing, don’t you think?” 

As always, Andrés was right. Oh, Martín knew that Tatiana rolled her eyes whenever Andrés quoted a passage from one of his favorite poems, but Martín adored it. Each quote, each verse, held hidden meaning. Layers upon layers – and Martín loved a good puzzle, loved sitting down on his bed and cradling it in his hands, digging his fingers into its flesh until it came undone. It distracted him. From the hardships of the day, from worrying about tomorrow. From himself. 

And right now, it distracted him from the pain blossoming in his ankle like ripe violets. 

Because despite his discomfort, Martín felt warm and content. He could fall asleep like this, draped across Andrés' back like a cloak, like a second skin. Without thinking, he burrowed further into Andrés, pressing his nose into his neck and shamelessly inhaling the scent of his aftershave, as familiar as home. 

“Andrés?" 

“Hmm?” 

“I didn’t mind you kissing me,” Martín mumbled against his neck. He was so drowsy, his eyes falling shut against his will. "You can do it again, anytime." 

Beneath him, Andrés chuckled. The rumbling sensation echoed in Martín's chest, digging deep and making a home for itself. Nesting inside of him and providing him with a pleasant glow that spread to the very tips of his fingers. 

He was already half-asleep by the time Andrés spoke up again, his words sending a rush of warmth through his chilled body. A comfort, a flutter of hope. 

"Thank you, Martín. I'll keep that in mind." 

**Author's Note:**

> > **Ghosting You** two months ago
>> 
>> 3 minutes: backstory about actual ghosts  
> 5 minutes: make out session  
> 30 minutes: grainy footage of the woods at night 
>> 
>> Unsubscribed. 
>> 
>> I recommend everyone check out _Denver’s Demons_. They do actual ghost hunting.
>>
>>> **Shotgun_Cake** one month ago
>>> 
>>> I love the tastefully homoerotic undertones though! Puduhegepa and I even made some memes about it. You can find them [here](https://puduhegepa.tumblr.com/post/628493492730068993/%F0%9D%99%B6%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%8D-%F0%9D%99%BC%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%9B%F0%9D%9A%97%F0%9D%9A%92%F0%9D%9A%97%F0%9D%9A%90-%F0%9D%99%B4%F0%9D%9A%9F%F0%9D%9A%8E%F0%9D%9A%9B%F0%9D%9A%A2%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%97%F0%9D%9A%8E-%F0%9D%9A%83%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%8D%F0%9D%9A%8A%F0%9D%9A%A2-%F0%9D%9A%A0%F0%9D%9A%8E-%F0%9D%9A%9C%F0%9D%9A%91%F0%9D%9A%8A%F0%9D%9A%95%F0%9D%9A%95-%F0%9D%9A%95%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%98%F0%9D%9A%94-%F0%9D%9A%8A%F0%9D%9A%9D/) and [here](https://bi-and-dangerous.tumblr.com/post/629169409554038786/friendly-reminder-that-the-berlermo-buzzfeed/).
>>>
>>>> **JohnDoe53** two months ago
>>>> 
>>>> 13:23 you can see a shadow figure moving through the frame


End file.
